After securing the platform’s mooring line the team turned east. The good news was that they were on level, mostly clear ground. The bad news was that there were bends in the river, each of which added to the total distance they had to travel.
The sun was sinking in the west by then, and all of them were tired. So, at a point which Rai judged to be a-half-mile short of their objective, Lee declared a one-hour break. “Eat,” Lee said. “And that’s an order. Make the rounds Evers… You know the drill.”
It was nearly impossible to make a high-speed cross-country march without incurring scratches, contusions, and blisters. “Show me your boo boos,” Evers said, as he knelt next to each soldier. “Daddy will make it all better.”
In keeping with the tradition that officers eat last, Lee and Harris stood guard, until other members of the team came to relieve them.
Every soldier had his or her preferences when it came to MREs (Meals Ready to Eat). Some people wanted to have as much diversity as possible. And would load a different meal for each day if they were available.
Others, Lee included, had their favorites and were content to eat the same dinner every day. For him that meant Chili and Macaroni. Like all MREs it came with other items including some marble pound cake, lemon-lime beverage powder, crackers, cheese spread, Skittles, and a hot beverage bag with accessories.
After activating the heater, and inserting both heater and pouch back into the cardboard box, voila! He had hot food. And Lee was hungry.
The moment dinner was over the operators began to gear up. “You’re going to need your night vision gear,” Lee told them. “So, put it on. We’ll dump our packs just short of the objective. Make sure you have beaucoup ammo, grenades, flares, and zip ties. And don’t forget water.”
“Yes, mommy,” Bakshi said.
“Show some respect,” Jones put in. “Lee’s an officer… And a mommy.”
“Only because the army issued him a team of adolescent idiots,” Harris put in. “Shut up and get your shit together.”
Lee grinned. Griping, joking, and a firm hand. It was the perfect mix.
The gurgling, splashing river was on their right as the soldiers followed it east. Rai was on point, with his M4 slung across his chest. And there, in the Gurkha’s right hand, was his kukri. The iconic knives had recurved blades and were associated with the Nepalese army, the Royal Gurkha Rifles of the British army, and the Gorkha regiments of the Indian army.
The knife’s value had been demonstrated in North Africa during WWII, when a unit commander filed a report that read: “Enemy losses: ten killed, ours nil. Ammunition expenditure nil.”
And now, as the team began to close in on the Chinese outpost, there was every reason to expect sentries. Soldiers who were quite likely to have night vision gear of their own. The days of “We own the night,” were over, and had been for some time.
Rai raised a hand. The team came to a stop as the Gurkha knelt, dropped his pack, and crawled forward.
Lee couldn’t see what was going on from his position toward the tail end of the column. But he could guess what Rai was up to. There were one or more sentries ahead. And, if Rai could neutralize them without raising an alarm, the team could get closer without the rest of the Chinese force becoming aware.
Ten long minutes passed. And Lee was starting to get impatient when Rai whispered into his mike. “Two sentries down… Moving forward.”
The night vision gear made everything look green, including the bodies that lay in pools of blood. “There,” Rai whispered. “Up ahead.”
“Hold your position. I’m coming forward,” Lee responded.
The night vision binoculars were ready, but Lee had to remove his night vision setup to make use of them. It was worth the trouble however. The Chinese outpost was up on what Lee judged to be twelve-foot stilts, and consisted of a one-story building, with a sandbagged gun emplacement on the roof. A radio mast stood off to one side. “Bakshi,” Lee whispered. “On me.”
The weapons expert arrived seconds later. “Hey boss, what’s up?”
“See the antenna? I want you to take it down when we move in. Then you can join the party.”
“Got it,” Bakshi replied.
“Okay,” Lee whispered. “Shed your packs and follow me. Remember, they have an Allied prisoner. Be careful who you shoot.”
Lee dropped his pack, waited for the others to do likewise, and eased his way forward. The key was to go slowly and look for tripwires. The kind that could trigger an electronic warning, set off a Chinese directional mine, or launch a flare. Any one of which would be disastrous.
But with no insurgents to deal with, and no contacts with Allied troops, the local PLA contingent hadn’t seen any reason to set up the kind of defensive measures that a wandering goat might trigger. So, Lee made it to the barbed wire fence without being detected. And there, beyond the wooden gate, was a sentry.
Lee could see him quite clearly thanks to the night vision gear. He drew his M9 pistol, screwed the suppressor onto the barrel, and took aim. The pistol produced a clacking sound when Lee fired. And though somewhat quieter than it would have been, it still seemed loud to Lee, and the noise was enough to alert a soldier positioned on the roof. He stood in order to see better--and jerked spastically as Cato fired on him.
Bakshi was firing by then. Forty-millimeter grenades exploded all around the radio antenna and the fifth round was enough to put it down.
Lee had kicked the gate open. The dead sentry lay sprawled to the right. Lee shot him just to make sure, and was turning back to face the building when a machinegun began to stutter from the roof. He heard someone cry out in pain, followed by a loud BOOM, as Bakshi fired his last grenade.
The automatic weapon fell silent as the door in front of Lee opened. Harris shouted, “Grenade!” and Lee threw himself sideways as something black passed through the doorway, and landed inside. There was a blinding flash of light followed by a sharp bang as the stun grenade went off. Harris entered first, then Cato, Rai and Lee. He heard the sound of a single shot and two bursts of automatic fire. “Two assholes down,” Harris said.
The presence of a radio antenna suggested that the PLA soldiers had a generator. But, for some reason, the building’s interior was lit with kerosene lanterns. Shadows danced the walls as the light flickered. The pilot was seated in a corner, hands tied, with a bag over his head. Rai pulled it off. “Are you Shades?”
The pilot had been beaten. His face was swollen, his nose was broken, and his lips were cracked. “Yes,” he croaked. “Who are you?”
“Corporal Yudda Rai, the Royal Gurkha Rifles.”
“Sukar Hai [Thank God].”
“Master Sergeant,” Lee said, as he cut the pilot free. “Check the roof. You too Corporal.”
Wooden stairs led up to a hatch. Harris went first with Rai for backup.
Lee turned to Cato. “What’s the status on our helo?”
“It’s on a sandbar, sir. Two miles downstream.”
“Call it in, find the helipad, and light it up. What’s the status on Evers and Jones?”
“Jones caught a round in the right leg. Evers is with him.”
“Shit. Okay… Find the helipad.”
Lee spoke into his mike. “How’s Jones?”
“He’s a whiner,” Evers replied. “But he’s stable, and ready for the evac. Do you see a stretcher in there?”
Lee looked around. “Yes, I do. I’ll bring it out.”
Then he turned to Shades. “Can you walk?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Good. Stay with me.”
The basket-style stretcher was hanging on a wall. Lee took it down and Shades proved his mettle by taking one end of it. They carried the stretcher out through the door and past the gate to the spot where Jones had been hit. “Sorry, sir,” the operator said. “The bastard got lucky.”
“I found the helipad,” Cato said over the team freq. “It’s on the east side of the building. Over.”
“Good,” Lee replied. “Evers and I will bring Jones over.”
“The roof is clear,” Harris said, as he appeared out of the gloom.
“Roger that,” Lee responded. “Take Rai, get our packs, and hump them to the pad. Then we’ll search the building for Intel.”
Flares lit the area with an eerie glow as Lee, Evers, and Jones arrived at the helipad. It wasn’t much. Just a concrete pad with a sun faded “H” on it.
Engines roared as the UH-60 Back Hawk swept in, hovered, and touched down. The helo’s door gunners continued to scan for danger as the crew chief jumped to the ground.
She was wearing a helmet with visor, a jumpsuit, and carrying an M4. “Load the casualty first,” she instructed. “In case we have to haul ass. You can’t see it, but a dogfight is underway at 20,000 feet. If our guys lose the Chinese fighters will be on us like stink on shit.”
“You heard the chief,” Lee said. “Load Jones, Shades, and the gear in that order. Harris and I will search the building.” They entered through the east door and went about the process like human vacuum cleaners. Lee remembered one instructor saying, “You yo-yos aren’t smart enough to decide what’s important, so take everything, and let the nerds sort it out.”
In this case “everything” included two laptops, all the sheets of paper pinned to a bulletin board, a notebook full of what might have been codes, some Russian-made porno, a batch of letters from a soldier’s girlfriend, a pencil sketch of a PLA soldier, and a travel brochure about Nepal. All of it went into two PLA packs then out to the helo where the rest of them were waiting.
Once Lee and Harris were aboard, the Blackhawk seemed to leap into the air. It banked to the west and followed a course that would take it through a succession of valleys and on to India.
The helo flew low at first, then as high as it could, in order to get over the front lines. An FB-10 surface-to-air missile came close but missed thanks to the decoy flares that pulled it away.
The helo was only fifteen minutes out from Trishul Air Base located about three miles north of Bareilly, in Uttar, Pradesh when Shades made his announcement. His English was profane but perfectly clear. “Hey motherfuckers, we’re going to land at my base, and I’m going to buy every damned one of you a drink.” The cheers could be heard up in the cockpit. The mission was over.
CHAPTER THREE
Shah Makhdum Airport, Bangladesh
Bangladesh belonged to the Chinese, for the moment anyway, and that included the Shah Makhdum Airport. Or what the People’s Liberation Army Air Force called “Bangladesh Military Region, Fighter Base 4.”
Chinese pilots had another name for the facility however, and that was “The Swamp.” The 6,000-foot runway was only 55 feet above sea level and a light rain was enough to flood its low-lying sections.
Unlike many military transports the Shaanxi Y-8 had windows and Tong was seated next to one of them. Thanks to his mission package, Tong knew that the air base was located a few miles away from the river that separated the Chinese from Allied forces in that particular area.
That explained the bomb craters, the SAM launchers, revetments for six Sukhoi SU-35 fighters, the lookout towers, the military vehicle park, the ant-like soldiers, and the antenna farm visible through the window. Tong felt a hard thump as the plane put down. The engines roared as the pilots used reverse thrusters to slow the transport down.
Tong eyed his companions. Wu was eating a candy bar—and Hoi was putting a book away. Tong and his two-person team were a tiny part of a payload that included 26 additional passengers, and 15 tons of supplies strapped to the center section of the deck.
With their heavily loaded black duffle bags in hand, the assassins followed soldiers to the back hatch, and down the ramp. The assassins were dressed in matching ball caps, windbreakers, and black cargo pants. Even without insignia they looked like members of the military.
A light rain was falling and the air was uncomfortably humid. Tong heard a distant rumble. Thunder? No. Artillery.
As the ground crew hurried to service the Y-8 and turn it around, the newcomers were funneled through a canopied checkpoint manned by a very efficient sergeant. “Name?”
“Heng Cao,” Tong lied, as he presented an ID Card which listed him as an employee of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, an organization that MSS used to provide cover stories to its agents. “There are three of us altogether.”
“I will need to see an ID card for each member of your party.”
After examining each card, the noncom nodded. “Do you need directions?”
“We’re supposed to meet a civilian guide.”
“He’ll be waiting for you in the terminal building. Have a nice stay.”
That seemed unlikely. But Tong said, “Thank you,” anyway.
It was a short walk to the beige four-story building. The way in which smaller structures were piled on top of each other was reminiscent of a temple, except that they were mounted on the roof. The fact that the terminal continued to exist was a testament to how effective Chinese air defenses were.
The others followed as Tong entered a spacious lobby. A man in a white shirt and black pants stood waiting. The sign he held was in English. “Mr. Heng Cao.”
All of Tong’s team could read, write, and speak English. The man had black hair shot with gray. “Mr. Gazi?” Tong inquired. “My name is Heng Cao.”
Gazi smiled and extended his hand. “Welcome to Bangladesh.” Then he paused meaningfully. “Red…”
“…Dragon,” Tong replied.
Gazi nodded. “Everything is ready… I will take you to a location where you can prepare and get some rest. We will depart at 3:00am. Do you have any questions?”
Gazi was an MSS contractor. One of thousands the Chinese government had hired and trained in the years previous to the war. And they were a valuable resource. “No,” Tong answered. “I’ll let you know if I do.”
Gazi led the team out through double doors. A Type 99 main battle tank was parked out front where its 125mm smoothbore gun could command 160 degrees of mostly open ground. A significant deterrent indeed.
Gazi led them past a sandbagged SAM site to a parking lot, half of which was occupied by a field hospital. A huge red cross decorated the roof. To protect it? To protect the airport? Or to protect both? Tong suspected the latter.
One corner of the lot was still available for parking. And that’s where Gazi’s aging van was waiting. The name “Gazi Excursions” was painted on the side. A sure indication that Gazi had been involved in tourism prior to the war. And what better way to move foreign agents around than in a tour vehicle?
After placing their duffle bags in the back of the vehicle the agents got in. The interior was spotlessly clean—and bottles of water were waiting. Gazi started the engine, looked both ways, and pulled out.
Rain drops pattered on the roof and the wipers carved arcs in the mud as they slapped back and forth. The two-lane driveway led to the main road which was paved and slightly elevated above the land to the right and left. Tong took notice of the fact Bangladeshis drove on the left, rather than the right, the way civilized people should.
Evidence of the war was visible everywhere. The Shah Makhdum airport and the territory around it had been in Allied hands originally. That was to say mostly Indian hands, since they’d been on their own when 3,000 members of the People’s Liberation Army Air Force Airborne Corps dropped out of the night sky ten miles east of the Padma River.
Elements of the Indian and Bangladeshi armies fought hard. But because they’d been taken by surprise, and the Pakistanis were invading from the north, the Indians weren’t able to get enough men and equipment into the area. A desperate retreat to the west bank of the river followed. That allowed the PLA to take control of the airport and resupply the paras who dug in.
Transports loaded with armor followed, as a steady stream of Chinese planes circled around the south end of the Himalayas, and into the poorly defended country of Bangladesh. Meanwhile PLA r
egulars were invading Bangladesh and Bhutan from the east. And when those countries capitulated China took control.
Had it not been for the timely arrival of American forces, which had been withdrawn from Afghanistan, the PLA would have been able to cross the river. But that day will come, Tong thought, as the van passed the long column of rain-drenched troops that were making their weary way west.
Gazi had to honk the horn repeatedly as a herd of free-roaming cows wandered onto the highway. A heavily loaded military transport was coming from the opposite direction. The driver continued to honk and even went so far as to nudge a cow with its front bumper.
Finally, having demonstrated their dominance, the bovines left the road, and allowed the vehicles to proceed. Modest homes lined both sides of the two-lane road. Most were made of mud or concrete blocks with roofs of corrugated metal. Some houses lay in ruins due to the fighting. Others were occupied. And that makes sense, Tong thought. Where would the people go?
After crossing a small bridge, they passed a burned-out CSK-131 personnel carrier, followed by what Tong assumed was a temporary graveyard, based on the tidy rows of metal markers. Indian troops perhaps, awaiting cremations that, barring something unexpected, would be a longtime coming.
After fifteen minutes or so Gazi turned onto a deeply rutted side road. It wound through a field of thickly planted jute trees, past a large pond, and up to the top of a rise where a prosperous looking house stood. So Gazi is a farmer, as well as a tour operator, and part-time employee of MSS, Tong thought. An enterprising man indeed.
The one-story home had two peaked roofs, one draining to the other, which jutted out over a raised verandah. The front of the house boasted four windows and three green doors.
A teenage boy and a girl hurried out to fetch the team’s luggage. Hoi shooed them away. “No one touches our stuff,” he said in English. And that was consistent with MSS training. “Never allow a stranger to handle your weapons,” the maxim went, “unless you’re ready to die.”
Gazi led the team over to the green door on the far left. It opened onto a spacious room clearly equipped for tourists. The kind who knew each other well—and were willing to share a room.
Red Dragon (Winds of War Book 3) Page 3